Still no sign of any people or bots.
He salvaged what few survival tools the suit’s outer pouch contained—medical supplies, a small plasteel tool with a dozen different tips folded into it, several tubes of high-calorie food paste and fortified water—and loaded them into his pockets. He propped the empty suit up on one of the benches, then looked toward the archway. “Hello? Anyone there?” No one answered. He said it louder. Still no one answered. He headed toward it.
Beyond it was a large chamber whose lights came on as he entered. It was circular in shape, with small kiosks set along the walls. Each one had its own name and design. Vast Repast had pastries displayed above a mock-wooden counter. King Knosh had a giant bagel with a smiling face on it. Taste of Kawaii had a pink storefront with cartoon kittens all over it; they’d been still when the lights first came on, but as he approached they began to dance a tango across the marquis. Music was playing somewhere, and different music was playing somewhere else. The melodies clashed.
A food court. He was in a goddamn food court!
It seemed so utterly absurd, given his circumstances, that he just started laughing. The sound was half fear and half relief, and once it started he couldn’t stop. All the tension of the last few hours came pouring out of him, and with it a few tears. A food court! Well, he was safe now, for sure! Hell, he could even get a sandwich if he wanted!
After a while the laughter subsided and his mood settled. Closing his eyes, he flashed a query to the station’s innernet. If all this tech was working properly, hopefully that would be, too. There was a pause, and then:
SHENSHIDO GATEWAY. CORPORATE ID OR GUEST?
Yes! GUEST, he told it. He held his breath.
APPROVED.
Now, in theory, the whole of Shenshido was at his fingertips. He spent a few minutes getting the hang of the interface, then called up plans of the station. What he received wasn’t terribly detailed—you probably needed a corporate ID to get more than the basics—but it was good enough for now. He called up a map of the inner ring, noted his location on it, and studied what was around him. Mostly shopping and residential facilities, which was standard for a corporate station; Terrans liked to separate their living quarters from their work space.
Then, about ten minutes’ walk from the food court, he saw a label that made his heart skip a beat: COM CENTER.
Thus far the station’s automated facilities had proven functional. If the communications center was as well, he could send out a call for help. Then it wouldn’t even matter if anyone else was on this damn station. For the first time since leaving Tridac he felt his spirits lift. He started toward the com center, then stopped. Was it gaming instinct kicking in, or did things just seem too easy? He headed over to a kiosk selling travel supplies, climbed over the counter, and looked for food. All those shelves were empty, but he saw a rack of backpacks hanging on the back wall and took one of those, stowing his tools inside. “Sorry,” he muttered to the shop’s absent owner. “I’ll send you money when I get home.”
Suddenly there was a scratching sound from across the room. He froze, looking around for the source. But the food court was silent once more. After a minute he vaulted back over the counter and headed toward the exits, but he kept looking back over his shoulder, just to make sure nothing was following him.
Nothing was.
The station grew darker as he hiked to the com center, and also grew dirtier. Whatever bots maintained the food court clearly had less interest in the housing section. There was actually dust in a few places—dust!—and some damage near the base of the wall. A few scratches, a few stains, nothing truly ominous, just odd. He couldn’t think of what would leave marks like that.
Once he thought he heard the scratching sound again, but though he froze for several long minutes, looking in every direction, there was no hint of where it was coming from.
At last he reached the promised land. Communications Center, the sign over the door said. As he approached it the panels split open, admitting him to—
Hell.
He stood in the doorway just looking at the place, so shocked that for a moment he was unable to process what he was seeing. Then details came into focus: Screens shattered. Consoles gutted. Wires tangled and knotted like intoxicated snakes.
All gone. Deliberately destroyed.
Slowly he walked into the room, picking his way carefully across fallen conduits, over fragments of console housing, past bits of stuffing that someone had ripped from a padded chair. He searched for some remnant of equipment that he could work with, but there was nothing. Whoever had destroyed this place had known what he was doing.
Coldness settled in his heart. The brief spark of hope vanished. And he heard the scratching again, this time from just outside the doorway. Just for a moment, and then it was gone. The hall outside seemed darker than he remembered. Were the lights fading? What if the power on the station was failing? There was no other exit from the room, which meant that he could brave the doorway, with all its mysterious noises, or wait here until the station died around him. There was no third option. Breath held, he listened for some other sound from the mysterious presence, but there was only silence. Finally he walked toward the door. Nothing attacked him. He hesitated, trembling, then edged out just far enough to look around the threshold. Nothing was there. Sighing in relief, he put his hand on the door frame and lowered his head, meaning to rest until his pounding heart slowed to its normal rhythm. But there was something odd under his fingertips, that drew his gaze upward again. Long scratches, like the ones he’d seen in the corridor. Several, in parallel. He ran his fingers down them, feeling how deeply they were etched, and shivered.
Your average corporate flunky wouldn’t know what they were. The low-level techs who had manned this com center wouldn’t recognize them. But he did. He’d designed too many fantasy games not to. And they were spread out as wide as his hand, placed as high as his shoulder. Whatever had made them was as tall as he was, and probably larger.
Claw marks.
If we wish to colonize deep space, then our first step must be to cast aside everything we think we know about designing space stations. The ones built in the past, huddled close to life-giving stars, were nothing like what we need now. Our new stations will have no sun to draw upon for power. They will have no planets to provide them with raw materials. Everything needed to build and maintain them will have to be harvested from distant star systems and imported across vast distances. The logistics will be daunting. The expense will be immense. Raw mass will take on a value that transcends its form; items that were once considered garbage may become valuable commodities.
Until we find a practical solution to this problem, deep space settlement can never be more than a fantasy.
SOLAN GETTYSBURG
The Deep Space Paradox (Gueran Archives, Tiananmen Station)